Open Windows
by unholymountain
Summary: Malia wants answers. Stiles just wants her to come back.


It's three days before he sees her again.

She's leaning against the wall outside the school when he stumbles out into the sunlight, and despite the hundreds of high schoolers crowding around him, he immediately notices her presence. She hadn't been in class that day, of course — Stiles would never have believed how lonesome algebra could be with just him, Lydia, Scott, and Kira, when there had been _years _of just him and Scott, but her empty desk seemed to grow bigger every time he looked at until he simply gave up and stared at the wall until the bell rang.

He stares at her for a moment, then down at his hands; his eyes lie to him enough that he's wary of any visions that are out of the ordinary or too good to be true. _One, two, three, four, five. _No extra fingers. She's really there.

A passing student brushes against his backpack and jerks him into action. He starts walking, then running toward her location, shoving and shouldering hapless classmates out of the way, his years of lacrosse paying off nicely.

She waits for him (slightly impatiently, by the look on her face), unmoving, not even bothering to hide the fact that she's staring at him. That's one of the things he loves — _loves?_ — about Malia. She's genuine. If she's happy, she looks happy. If she's sad, she looks sad. If she's angry, she looks… well, she looks a lot like she does now.

"Malia," he says when he gets to her, slightly out of breath, because there's so much he should say that he doesn't know where to start, because he's been living through variations of this conversation every waking moment since she left, because he left the window open last night even though it was colder than usual and woke up freezing and alone. Thankfully, unfortunately, she does know where.

"I just want to know why," she says. "I just want to know why you wouldn't tell me." She stares at him defiantly. Her eyes are slightly wet and bright with anger.

He looks to the side and digs his hand into his pocket. "We…we wanted to." But she's already waving him off.

"Not 'we.' You. I want to know why _you_," she jabs him in the chest, and it would hurt more if it wasn't the first time she touched him since she removed his hand three days ago, "didn't tell me. Not Scott or Kira. You."

He glances down at his stomach (her hand is gone now), then at her. "I thought you might…take it the wrong way? Look, Peter is a seriously evil guy, okay? He tried to kill Scott. He nearly bit me. Peter is not someone you want as a father."

She shakes her head. "But he is my father. And that's something I should know. It's not your decision to make, Stiles." His name sounds heavy coming from her lips. It didn't sound that way before.

"I was trying to protect you!"

At this, Malia shoves him against the brick wall. "I'm not a little kid, Stiles! I don't need or _want _your protection. What I want," she says, fury suddenly abated, "is your trust. I trusted you, Stiles. More than anyone. And I guess I'm just wondering why you couldn't trust me."

He stares at her. He can do nothing but stare. His brain thinks of a thousand things to say but his mouth couldn't wouldn't _shouldn't _move, not after everything he's done. She meets his eyes for a long moment.

"Nothing, huh?" Her voice is steady but her eyes are welling up with tears. She turns away. "I thought as much. But I had hoped differently."

She takes three steps, then turns around, eyes ablaze, flaring with anger. "And you know something, Stiles? If you had just told me, we could have worked it out. But I had to find out who my real dad is by reading a list. A _list_. Of people going to be killed. You were trying to protect me? You did a _fantastic _job." Malia's hands are balled into fists and shaking ever so slightly. "That's irony. I learned about it in the SAT study guide."

She turns to walk away and Stiles can't, _can't_ leave it like that and he _forces _his mouth open and _pushes _his words through.

"I'm sorry."

She stops, but doesn't turn around.

"I'm sorry we— I'm sorry _I_ didn't tell you. I'm sorry you found out from a list. I'm sorry that I fucked up. I fucked up, okay? And I don't know…I don't know if you will ever forgive me. I don't know if you _can _ever forgive me. But I want you to know that I'm sorry. For everything. And the reason I did everything I did, however misguided, was out of concern for you." She still doesn't move. He steps toward her. "I…I care about you. So much. And these past few days without you? It's been hell, alright? I can't stand it. I can't stand you not being there."

She finally faces him. Her eyes are dry. "I'm sorry too." She turns and walks away. She doesn't look back.

That night, he leaves the window open, and the cold keeps him up till dawn.


End file.
